Perhaps
by ICRepresentative
Summary: ... Perhaps I came here to say goodbye to the theatre which had been my home for so many years. One shot.


**Disclaimer**: This version of Phantom belongs to ALW and Gerard Butler. (Mmm... sexeh Scotsman...)

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I don't suppose I can give any reason why I came here. To say goodbye, perhaps, to the theatre that had been home to me for so many years. It is silent now. Silent and forgotten. No more music, no more laughter, no more voices raised in song. And the dust and cobwebs have gathered thickly on what used to be gold, tarnishing it. Dust has turned the plush red seats to little more than refuse. Memories of this place were so beautiful, as was the theatre itself. It saddens me to see what has become of the Opera Populaire. 

The pound of a gavel brings my thoughts back to the present. Treasures from the Opera's glory days are being sold off, one by one, to the highest bidder. The memories that flood back from each piece make me want to weep. But I contain my tears - this is too sad a day to add sorrow by crying.

I see an old man, wheelchair-bound, waiting. Watching the auction. He looks my way, stares for a moment, then nods. I nod in return. We have not seen each other in so long. We have both aged so. I doubt, though, that he knows who I am.

"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen. A _papier mache_ musical box in the shape of a barrel organ."

The old man's face turns towards the auctioneer at the same time mine does. I remember that item. I remember it so well. And, judging from his face, so does the man sitting in the wheelchair. Should I bid? Should I buy this piece for myself?

"Attached, the figure of a monkey, in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item discovered in the vaults of the theatre, ladies and gentlemen. Still in working order."

"Showing here."

_Masquerade… Paper faces on parade…_

Oh, how I do want to weep. That song! Those memories! Tears threaten to spill over.

"May I commence at fifteen francs?"

Should I bid? Should I buy this piece, this collector's item that means little to anyone else? But to what end? For the memories? For the sake of it? Should I simply hold my tongue? Oh, I remember it so well…

"Fifteen, thankyou."

The man in the chair gestures. His nurse holds up a finger for the auctioneer.

"Yes, twenty from you, sir, thankyou very much." The auctioneer scans the crowd again. "Madam Giry, twenty-five, thankyou madam." The auctioneer looks around again. "Twenty-five I am bid. Do I hear thirty?"

The man in the chair gestures again, desperation in his aged features. His nurse again holds up a finger, bidding on the piece.

"Thirty."

Thirty francs. An exorbitant price for such a small thing. Dare I bid thirty-five? A pittance, and a king's ransom all at once. For a music box? Absurd. But still, the lure is almost too great. I have to have it, I must have…

"And thirty five?"

I look at the old man again, and I feel my selfishness evaporate. No. This man deserves it more than I do. I will not bid for this music box. Let Raoul have it. Christine would have wanted it this way.

"Selling at thirty francs then. Thirty once, thirty twice…" The crisp bang of the gavel. "Sold for thirty francs to the Vicomte de Chagny. Thankyou sir."

The Vicomte de Chagny. Raoul. I remember his face, all those years ago. Time has not been kind to him. But the past two years have been the cruelest. Christine's death… the man still wears the sorrow about him like a cloak.

Perhaps… Perhaps that is why he bought the music box. Perhaps that is why he came here. So say goodbye to the memories that the Opera House held before it was to be torn down.

Perhaps that is why I am here.

"Lot 666: a chandelier in pieces."

I look over to the Vicomte. Would he recognise me, I wonder, if I was wearing what I had worn at the masquerade ball? Or was I just another face among all the masks that night? The only faces he would remember would be Christine and the Phantom.

"Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera… a mystery never fully explained."

A mystery? Not to those who were there. But then, who would listen to the ravings of a dancer, a stagehand, an actor, or a singer? No, it was a mystery, and would remain so.

"We're told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier that featured in the famous disaster."

Disaster? Yes, of course. Everything fell apart that night. The Opera House burned down. And no-one was willing to have any part in the repair of a place that was said to be haunted by a madman… That is why this place is fallen into ashes and cobwebs. Because the memory of the Opera Ghost still lingers here.

"Our workshops have repaired it, and wired parts of it…" The man's voice fades from my mind. The chandelier. How well I remember. The flames, the screams, the chaos. And amid it all… Christine. The focus of the Phantom's love. Love? Perhaps love is too tender a word. Obsession, though, seems too harsh. For that man loved her with a passion beyond mortal terms… and beyond mortal understanding.

"Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago… with a little illumination."

Frighten away a ghost? Perhaps.

I watch, like all the others, as the chandelier is raised, the new electric lights replacing the candles with gusto. I feel the shivers crawl up and down my spine as I remember the song Christine sang once. Throughout the dusty halls, the organ pipes seem to echo that wonderful, horrible song. The song of the Phantom of the Opera.

_In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came  
That voice which calls to me, and speaks my name  
And do I dream again, for now I find  
The Phantom of the Opera is there… Inside my mind…_

Frighten away the ghost? Monsieur, you've only rekindled our memories of him. But you wouldn't understand - you probably weren't even born yet. How could you possibly understand? How could you know anything of what happened that night?

I turn away from the glitter of the chandelier. It seems obscene in here - that the chandelier should be repaired while the opera house falls into decay. That it should be resurrected while the opera house is bound for the grave. Oh, the opera house… So many memories… So much I wish I could have taken with me… So much I wish had never been taken from me…

I turn to go, seeing only for an instant the upturned faces of those who came to the auction. I let my gaze linger on the aged face of the man Christine loved with all her heart.

Good day, vicomte. I wish you the best.

I put the Opera House far behind me while he relives the night his angel sang. The night his angel soared.

The night the Phantom reigned.

The air outside is crisp and cold, and snow is falling softly. How different from that night long ago, when flames consumed this beautiful building, this house of colour and art and music… So different. For now, all that lingers in the air is snow… and memories.

Christine de Chagny. You took his name, you took the vows, you took his hand and smiled. Did you live a happy life, I wonder? Were you satisfied in the life with your childhood sweetheart? Your children bear his name now, not yours. But, I wonder, did you ever look back? Did you ever wake in the night, thinking you heard the song of your Angel of Music on the wind? Did you ever wish you had not chosen the vicomte, but the Phantom?

But as with all things, it is too late now. Too late for the Phantom, too late for his opera house, too late for you.

Christine, God rest your soul, it's too late for you. I would weep, Christine, but I know you would not approve of my tears.

I make my way through the snow. The cold is beginning to bother my old bones now. But there is one last thing that I must do. One last thing I must do before I return to my home, and the warmth of a fire and hot food. I cross the street, clogged with icy slush and automobiles, and make my way to a waiting carriage. And soon, I am on my way.

Christine, Christine, I think of you often. You were the Opera Populaire's true star - none of the dancers could dance as well as you, none of the singers could match you. La Carlotta, for all her temper tantrums and theatrics, was jealous of you, and wished to be like you. I remember the night you played the pageboy in Il Muto - she was revelling, almost childishly, in her role. She was the countess. She had trumped the Phantom. For a while.

The Phantom, Christine. You never called him 'the Phantom' in fear or anger, except when you were so afraid of him that you ran to your old love, your gentle love, Raoul de Chagny. The Phantom had killed a man, but after due warning. Tragedy happens when people did not respect the Phantom, when people refused to believe in the Opera Ghost. You believed, Christine. You believe he was your Angel of Music. You may have loved him, once, when you learned his true name. When you learned that the man who sang to you was not your father. I wonder… did you think of him? Did you think of him while you played the role of wife and mother? Perhaps you did.

Oh, Christine, I do believe you thought of the Phantom. How can you not think of one who changed your life so? One who was there, protecting and guiding you, unseen but not unheard. Did you ever think of his love, burning for you brighter than any flame? Were you ever drawn to find him? Did you ever yearn to find him, find where he'd gone the night he fled? Or did you shrink from the fires of his passion, like you did the night you kissed him goodbye and ran away with the young vicomte?

Christine de Chagny. Beloved wife and mother. Oh, Christine, the painted picture bears none of your glory. But I still recognise your face. If only you had lived, Christine. If only you had lived long enough to see what remained on the Opera house, to see the haunted, burnt-out shell of a building that you once called home. If only you had known… If only you had known…

This belongs to you, my love. I tie the ring to the rose and place it on your headstone. Not in the place of honour, no, but to the side. The place of honour belongs to your husband, to the man you chose over me. I still love you, Christine, even though you had chosen another. I stepped aside for your happiness, Christine, but I have never forgotten how much I loved you. How much I still love you. I have never forgotten.

He comes now - I hear him. The vicomte. Your husband and childhood sweetheart comes to say goodbye. I kiss your portrait - a farewell kiss, Christine, a kiss full of longing and regret - before I turn to go.

But in the graveyard I remain. I watch, silent and dark as I did in the Opera house. I watch as Raoul scorns aid, and rises to his feet to place the music box at the place of honour at the foot of your grave. He still loves you, Christine. Death will not stop his love.

Nor will it stop mine.

He sees the rose. He sees the ring. He remembers. The things he tried to push from his mind all come flooding back.

It is time for me to go.

Raoul looks up then. Perhaps he can see me. Perhaps not. But somehow, he knows I am there.

He nods to me. I nod in return. He knows. He understands. My love for you, Christine, will never fade away.

I leave the old man with his memories, and make my way through the gently falling snow.


End file.
